I’m going to Arizona. Or, rather, I’m trying to go to Arizona.
Flight out of Boston last night was delayed for 90 minutes while maintenance crews inspected the aircraft for a mystery bird that may or may not have been biffed on landing, and the delay, regrettably, caused us to miss our connection in Atlanta. So an Atlanta hotel it was, on such a fine Wednesday night, but what to do about libations? You know as well as I that an evening without spirits is like an evening without soul, so I wheedled our cabbie into taking me prowling for post-midnight beer. His was a limo-for-hire, and when I asked how much our excursions would cost, he simply said “you know, just take care of me, and I take care of you”. I hope that a crisp twenty was payment enough – after our third stop, I was certainly elated to be the proud owner of a Stella Artois 40.
The morning came too early, as I’d been beer hunting until well after one, but groggy-eyed as I might have been, I managed to make it to my 8:30 flight a full two hours early. My flight, that is, to PHILADELPHIA. All of AirTran’s flights from ATL to PHX were booked, so they sent us to Philly for connection with a US Air flight that would take us to our final destination. Get that? I don’t. Anyway.
Now I’m sitting with a glass of pinot gris at some cookie-cutter airport bar, plying the internet gods and praying that this fucking snow lets up so I can get my white ass to sun country before all hell breaks loose. Flights are cancelled everywhere, Southwest is basically shut down, and as pretty as the flakes look outside, I’m cursing every one that falls. Lucky thing, though, that AirTran picked up my wallet after I forgot it on my first flight. Screwdrivers in the morning, doncha know, and I didn’t realize I’d lost it until after I’d waited in line at customer service for an hour trying to get someone to print my boarding pass for this flight that may or may not actually happen. Why, God, there’s not enough booze in the world to make this sort of thing manageable.
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